The Seventh Day

by Joy Dettman

  We are three. We have the dogs. We know this land and the grey men do not. We know the dark, so we are not without power.

  I step forward. Lenny sees me. He it was who pushed the lever to turn off the fence’s singing. He it was who sent Pa to the barn and bade him come only if called. He signals to me now. Go.

  Then the one with the gun sees me. His gun lowered, he steps back, behind Lenny. Had he stepped forward, Pa may have been able to fire a dart.

  The grey men now look at me. They do not hold guns, but the paralysing tool is in the hand of one, and I know not if he is Sidley or Salter, for from this distance I can not read their shoulder ornaments.

  ‘Heel,’ I say to the dogs, in the commanding voice of old Pa. They obey me and stand like tall guardians at my sides.

  ‘Come. We have prepared the craft for your transportation. There will be no more delays.’ I make no reply but step nearer, for I think, as with Jonjan, the third thick man has not seen a true female. He stares at me, makes a movement with the hand not holding the gun, a strange, two-fingered movement from his head to his thick chest, and to each side of his chest, and his head bows low, I think so he will not see me.

  I step forward again. Does he fear the females? I comb my long hair with my fingers, I make my breasts lift high. Tonight I wear Pa’s green overall, which will fasten at my breasts, though the fabric moulds them. As I step into full light, my eyes watch only his face. He looks up but his gun looks down as he takes a further fast step back.

  ‘From her womb a new world shall arise,’ I say. I do not quite know why I choose to speak the words of Jonjan’s Book of Moni, but they are as words from some ancient charm for they make the one with the gun do the two fingers crossing sign once more before disappearing around the corner. Salter crows an order, but it appears that Sidley wishes to follow the thick male, for he too has stepped back. Lenny, behind him, also steps back. I believe he only requires the support of the brick wall.

  So I do it again, my voice more commanding, and not my own. ‘And it shall come to pass that this land will flow with milk and honey, and your great city will fall.’ I believe these words are a little like the words Granny read from her Bible, and I strive to think of more for the two grey men stare at me with wide eyes. Quickly I add: ‘And God will send a great flood of rain so it may wash the land clean for the coming. And he will send the plague to wipe the sinful from this land. And it has begun, for I have been told that the third one of you has left the living.’

  ‘It was his misfortune,’ they chorus.

  ‘So you think to bring the city sickness to me when I have just been recovered by the sacred waters of Moni?’

  Lord. I think Sidley will die of that name. His grey marble eyes grow so huge that surely they will burst and spray their grey juice in streams. And how hard his round mouth works to make reply.

  ‘We are free of the sickness,’ Salter says, then he calls an order, loudly, perhaps to the thick limbed man with the gun – who does not come.

  My dogs step forward, so I step forward. ‘And what of the unfinished ones you have taken from me? The messenger tells me they die in your filthy city.’

  They make no denial, but Salter calls again for the thick man before turning to Lenny. ‘She is free of the cordial,’ he says.

  Lenny can only shake his head. I answer for him. ‘She is free of the tomorrow juice that leads to acceptance of the unacceptable,’ I say. ‘You may now bring her V-cola.’

  Salter is looking at my belly, which has swollen in the weeks since my illness. I have been eating very well of eggs and meat and cheese and pumpkin. I think perhaps it is better if I speak of the one which swims within me.

  ‘I am breeding,’ I say, and I think now that Lenny dies, for he sits down hard on the brick window ledge, and it is well that it is there or he may have sat all the way down to the verandah floor. His actions will tell them the truth

  ‘She has not been Implanted,’ the grey men chorus.

  ‘Was it not written by the ancient ones that the messenger would come to Mary . . . in the barn, and Implant her? Was it not written?’

  ‘It was written,’ Sidley says, and his face shows great fear. I think he grows more white than grey. Salter only stares at Lenny and I do not wish him to stare at Lenny. I do not wish to stare at Lenny, so I turn to the loft and speak on swiftly, wishing only to give more fear and hold the grey men’s attention away from Lenny.

  ‘He came to me . . . in the loft, and he placed his golden hand upon me and with his hand planted his seed within me, and there was a great light that blinded my eyes. And I heard the singing of a chorus of ghosts that came from the clouds in a golden craft.’ Is that not what Jonjan said? There is not time to think of right or wrong. ‘It was the messenger who told me of the poison in your cordial, and he who said to . . . unto me, “From her womb a new world shall arise.” Was it not written in the Book of Moni?’

  Salter thinks to approach me but Sidley can only stare while his little mouth purses and stretches, purses and stretches. Again I step forward. ‘And as it was written, so now it is done. You may take your Implanting tools and leave. Go in peace.’ I wait, a dog on either side of me as Salter again crows out his strange call to the one with the gun – who does not obey. ‘Forward,’ I say to the dogs. They obey, stepping before me to show all of their fine teeth while they snarl their great threats. Salter steps back twice from them. He glances at Lenny, and at Pa, who is standing near the water tank.

  ‘It is the golden child,’ Sidley crows.

  ‘And in the city we will safeguard the birth of it,’ Salter replies.

  ‘It is surely golden, and in the mountains it will be freeborn and live . . . live in the promised land of Moni – as it is written.’ I hope it is written . . . somewhere.

  ‘It is written,’ Sidley says.

  ‘So go in peace, and when you return in forty days and forty nights you may bring with you the Book of Moni, for the voice said unto me that I must read the words of Moni, a wise prophet whose words have been mocked in the city. You may also bring me a clean newsprint that has all of the pages, for the chorus of ghosts also said there is much to learn of the city in order that we might cleanse it of plague.’ I fold my arms and stand, my head high while they communicate.

  ‘Come. We wish only to test your words.’

  ‘There will be no interference with the messenger’s Implanting.’

  They speak long together, with some mutterings but little movement of the lips; they do not speak to Lenny and for this I am pleased. His hands are covering his head and his cap is falling to the side. He looks at me as he may have looked at my mythical visitor, his mouth open wide.

  ‘When was the time of his Implanting?’ Sidley asks.

  ‘My great time on earth is my gift to you. Do not question a gift.’ These words I borrow directly from Granny. I can think of no fitting reply I might take from the tales she told me of her Bible. I did not like them as well as her poems, which now is a great pity, but her words sound strong.

  ‘It is written,’ the grey men chorus.

  ‘Come,’ I say to the dogs, as the grey men say ‘come’, and in their voice, then I walk away into the dark, so fast, and the dogs walk at my side. I think Granny is pleased with me tonight for within my head I hear her laughter.

  The grey men do not follow me, which is well. Pa follows me as I walk to the barn, then I run from him beyond the barn where I allow my own laughter its freedom.

  Forty days and forty nights. The city men have set the buttons on Lenny’s day calculating machine. Forty days and forty nights. We have new supplies, new overalls for Lenny, new sandals for me and new pills for Pa. And, Lord, there is such a lightness in the old house and there is green on the hills.

  The grey clumps of spiky grass that Lenny cuts for the pigs and cows have grown tall and soft with moisture. I walk with him to cut it, and the dogs chase a rabbit and bring it down, and we see another, and another, and they bring down thre
e, and Lenny steals them for the freezer, but I take two from his hands and give one each to the dogs. They thank me and carry them home so proudly.

  And Pa’s pumpkins! They race headlong across the yard and each day the size of their fruit near doubles, and more flowers grow when we thought no more would grow and I think we will have a hundred, or two hundred pumpkins. And the other plant, that grows at their side, has its own smaller fruit.

  The first rain lasted only for two days and three nights, but the season which follows it is one of many variations. We have heat and sun and storm together, we have the howling winds and rain and such a trembling from deep within the earth that feels as if it will never still, then, when it does still, our legs, grown accustomed to walking on trembling ground, do not walk so well, and we laugh, and even the dogs laugh, and Pa smiles.

  And how he talks. He sits often on Granny’s rocking chair on the verandah, watching the sky and speaking of the cloud formations. The rain, the smell of the earth and the wind excite him. He appears to have grown so much older in body, but younger in mind, and spends less of his day sleeping and more of it in speaking of the old world, and the old rains, and of the creek, and the fish that once swam in it, and when Lenny and the dogs grow bored with listening to him, he speaks to me.

  I listen, and find there is much to learn from this old one.

  ‘My pa used to tell his-story of them first ones – like them settin on this here same chair watching movement like . . . like truck moving on that track, like great sky buses, flying to Enlan. Out there somewhere. And there was the Mericas on other side.’ He points, waves his arms east and west. ‘God’s rogomet sunk um.’

  I do not understand his words, but I know of England and the queen who lived there and had fine garden parties, and of the king who cut off heads with a sword, and I know of America and the war of the slaves and the tall twins that were felled. Granny told me, too, of Africa where giant elephants once roamed. Also it is in the books. All of the past is in Granny’s books. There are books that show the shapes of the old world and other books that have fine pictures of the ones who inhabited the old world. Also I know truck and car and boat and bus from Granny’s dictionary, which has all of the words of all of the old world.

  ‘Was there rain when you were young, Pa?’

  ‘Rains? They come some years when I was a boy. Creek run some years. Place a seed in the earth and it grew, girl. Back then. We was still getting rain from time to time when my pa died, just weren’t reg’lar.’

  ‘And the trucks . . . and other road vehicles. You did not see one?’

  He shakes his head. They was in my pa’s grandpa’s time. No, no it weren’t. It were one more pa, I reckon.’ He sits a while, thinks a while. ‘Reckon it were my pa’s grandpa’s grandpa’s time. Near enough. There weren’t nothing much left when my pa was a boy, ’cepting more of them strangers wanting to trade. Nothing much left when I was a boy – ’cepting a few strange bastards.’

  ‘Did they, the trucks, come from the city?’

  ‘Old ’uns reckon there was cities all over back then. Beasts and people all over back then – so my old pa used to tell his-story. Reckoned that if you followed that there track down far enough, you come to this –’ He rubs his mouth, spits, thinks a while. ‘Town,’ he says. ‘Town. They used to go down to town. Something like that, girl. And there was people there and friendly visiting and all of ’em living in houses, and places you went to get your supplies before plagues come. My pa used to have some of the old metal bits the old ones used for trade. Reckon they’re still around some place – less Lenny turned ’em into darts. Old Thomas, he lived in a house down that way. Some place. Back then. Before the rogomet.’

  ‘Was it a long way?’

  ‘Reckon so. Walked a long ways down that track. Not much older ’an you then. Didn’t find much. Trees felled over it and hard work walking back up it. Didn’t try it no second time. Reckon the houses was down further than I walked. My old pa reckoned a lot of bits of them houses got brung up here by the old ’uns to build the huts. Huts was still standing when I was a boy.’

  He thinks a while and I wait. Granny had never spoken of what was down the hill, and I have never thought of it, but I know of town and city from my books, and I know that there were many people who laughed and loved and danced in the towns.

  ‘I would like to walk down that hill, Pa.’

  ‘Winds around like a snake with fleas, girl. Frekin near turns around and bites itself on the bum.’

  ‘Did your pa know of the grey men’s city?’

  ‘Reckon he didn’t know much of what was out there. Mostly thought there was nothing left out there, ’cepting the wanderers always wanting to take what we had. Pa knowed the his-story. Reckoned they all learned it. He told me what he could.’ He thinks, scratches at his jaw. ‘I believe, girl, it were my pa’s grandpa’s grandpa which were the Thomas Martin that seen the Ending, which were a hundred year before my time – so my pa told me.’

  ‘I have seen that name.’

  ‘He’s in the graveyard. Made eighty-two years. Reckon I’ve made more.’ He waves his arm again to the west and to the east, to the north and the south. ‘Cities everywhere out there before the Ending come. And long wires, girl, that come across them there mountains, and tied all them cities into one place. The old ’uns used to tell of talking that come along them wires from Enlan. Used to tell of flocks of them flying sky buses coming in from Enlan and the Mericas and other places too – before the Ending, coming in from all over. Floating crafts, too, that come across the great waters. We was down south, you see, and they reckoned plague was up the north, so they was all flying south like the birds – like to get far from it.’

  ‘Do you know who made the rog –?’

  ‘Rogomet. It come from God. That’s what finished it, girl. Don’t rightly know more of it. Never did rightly know. Only thing my old pa knowed was, there was this raiding and warring all over. And there was plague of man and beast, which was killing off all God’s creatures.’ He lifts a finger, points to the clouds. ‘Well God got mad as hell, girl, so he tossed down the rogomet to stop all the warring and the world got knocked off its axles by it and it brung the holeygost. That’s the words my ole pa used to say to me. He reckoned the holeygost brung the little moon. Never was but one moon when Thomas was a boy.’

  ‘The old books do not speak of two moons. It is always the one.’

  ‘Don’t know nothing about books. Only know what I seen and what my old pa seen, and he only knowed what his pa seen, and so on, girl. Old Thomas, well he seen the sun die, seen mountains falling, seen new ones rising. Seen the ravine open where there weren’t no ravine before. And he seen the little moon born and the earth settle down too.’

  ‘Granny once said there were seventy-seven men, women and children here.’

  ‘Reckon she’d know. Thought she knew every frekin thing. I don’t rightly know much ’cepting my cows and my pumpkins, but I seen them talking wires once myself when I was a boy. Course they weren’t going to no place and had no voices in ’em. Birds sat on ’em. Birds of such colour you never seen. They gone now. Pa and me, we used to eat ‘em. Rains stopped coming. Birds stopped coming. We stopped eating ’em. Lived on what I could when my pa died. Talked to my cows and dogs till she come home, and they didn’t talk back like the old girl did. She didn’t like nothing that was male. Wouldn’t take to me or the boy. Wanted a female, she did. Wanted you when you come.’

  ‘Do you know how I came, Pa?’

  ‘Reckon we seen a bastard searcher a few days before you come. Seen it circling around the hills. Mighta gone down. Don’t know nothing more about it. Reckon you used to cry for Mummy. Me and the boy had a look up in the hills for her. Never found no sign. The old girl screamed at us for looking. Reckon she never much wanted for us to find her, you being female like. Wanted to keep you, learn you the reading and the writing. Never took a liking to the boy. Never learned him nothing but how to dodge a kick i
n the bum. Maybe I coulda got her a female – if she’d took a liking to me and the boy.’

  I wait for him to find the rocking rhythm again before I lead him back to that other time. ‘Did you know Granny when she was the Moni child?’

  He shakes his head, keeps shaking it. ‘Never was such a thing, that one. Got born old and mean, that one. My pa talked her name, reckoned she was the last Morgan. She knew his name. Knew my ma, Kara, too. And meself like, and me name. Jem. That’s my name, girl. I were a newborn around the time she was took – so my old pa used to tell. Searcher bastards tried to take my ma. Same night. Couldn’t take her so they killed her. Kara, a fighting woman, my pa used to say. Fight better than a man, and smart. She knew the reading. I never knew her, a course. Reckon I’ll meet her soon enough though, girl. Meet both of ’em.’ He closes his eyes, but I do not wish him to sleep.

  ‘In the Ending, the holy ghost, was Thomas a boy or a man?’

  ‘Just a boy. He seen the dying. He reckoned, like, after they lost the sun, the cows all went mad. Sheep was already mad. The dogs went mad, then man went mad. Killing there was. Man killing man for a female or a frekin sheep. Sheep was like cows, girl, but you could cut the hair off of ’em, weave it.’ He makes a crossing of his index fingers, watches the movement. ‘With knitting sticks. Sheep was about the same size as a cow – from what I recall. A few lived past the Ending. I seen a few. Ate ’em too. They all gone now. Had no brains to run, so they got ate. Everything got ate when the rains stopped coming.’

  ‘The kangaroo survived the Ending. Did you eat the kangaroo?’

  ‘I seen one. Chased it. Couldn’t catch it. Like a giant rat with a coil spring tail. Never seen nothing like it, girl.’

  ‘I have seen one in the books.’

  He shakes his head. ‘The old girl was full of book learning. It don’t do much good in this frekin world. I never had no use nor time for it. Staying alive was my learning, girl.’

  ‘Your pa, did he die of . . . of plague?’